I have to say hell doesn't appear to agree with you. Noir reached up and patted him on the cheek like he was a dutiful puppy. His immaculate black suit and crisp white shirt looked out of place in the cold dark room-a room with walls that were splattered and stained with Seth's blood. Almost seven feet in height, Noir made the demons around them tremble in fear. As it was, all he could do was glare his hatred at the ancient being and wish he possessed his full powers so that he could rain down utter misery on all of them. But he would have insulted Noir if he'd been able to. He wasn't a child now, and he'd die before he ever humiliated himself again by asking for something he knew he'd never receive. Only one person had ever made him do that and, even after a millennium, his adoptive father's mocking condemnation still echoed in his ears. He'd never give any of them the satisfaction of hearing him beg or cry out. With the bolt in place, he hadn't been able to speak since he'd been thrown in here. Ah hell, who could count that high? And why would anyone want to when every single heartbeat drove home a pain so foul he no longer remembered living without it? Indeed, over the centuries, pain had become its own source of pleasure. He would have responded to the stupid question, but his mouth had been bolted shut by the demons who'd been torturing him for the last. "Was hell good for you?" Seth looked up from beneath the strands of his blood-soaked auburn hair, to snarl at the sound of a voice he hadn't heard in centuries.
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